


I'm Sorry, I'm Sorry, I Love You

by leon_di



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Fantasizing, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Pining, Sadstuck, Sexual Content, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, bitch me too the fuck, no happy ending, tldr: dirk is gay and sad, very very brief sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 08:09:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20386471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leon_di/pseuds/leon_di
Summary: I didn't mean to say what I saidI miss you, I mean it, I tried not to feel itBut I can't get you out of my head(Dirk loves Jake. Jake doesn't know. Ya'll know the rest.)((A sad gay fic written by a sad gay boy. Fun fact I actually sent this to the guy I was pining after and we're still friends so hey all's well that ends well ig)





	I'm Sorry, I'm Sorry, I Love You

**Author's Note:**

> i was pining hardcore irl and so i vomited this up at like 4 am bc dirk is my go-to angst projection character bc hes canonically gay and depressed even though i dont usually go for dirkjake sadness bc we got enough of that from canon already
> 
> also if ur wondering abt my other fic: i havent forgotten it. i think about it literally every day. it is burning a hole in my soul. i promise i'll get back to it. life is hard. go read that its marginally better than this depression fever dream
> 
> also title and summary is from "your type" by carly rae jepsen bc im really trying to drive home the fact that i am a depressed homosexual

You’re lucky. You’re the luckiest man on the planet, just to even be in his presence, to be able to bask in his light every day. Because he’s the fucking sun, you swear, he never burns out or gets tired. 

You’d never loved a boy like you love him. Before him, you knew about love like you knew about parents, or normal sleep schedules, or anything else that didn’t fit in to your life. It was something reserved for other people, not you. And it was fine. It really was. 

But then you saw him, the new kid in your seventh grade science class. The teacher didn’t have him stand at the front of the class like they do in movies, he just showed up one day, this boy from an island in the Pacific who had never attended public school before, and he changed everything. 

You felt it in your chest first, when you saw him, a black hole in your ribs sucking every part of your being into it only to spit you back out, but then it spread, this feeling, this indescribable  _ itch _ that threatened to tear you apart at the seams and ooze out of every orifice in your body. You didn’t know what to do. You still don’t. If you knew what you were doing it wouldn’t hurt quite this much, you think. 

He just came into your life like a fucking whirlwind, completely unprompted and unannounced, how dare he? Making you feel things you didn’t know you had the emotional capacity for. Who gave him the right? You did, of course. You would hand him your heart on a silver platter with a little decorative umbrella they put in cocktails sticking out of it if he asked. 

On the bright side, it’s not as scary anymore, you don’t stay up all night as much as you did when you were 13, drawing pictures of the two of you and then immediately tearing them up until the pieces were so small you physically couldn’t get purchase on them with your fingers to tear them anymore. You don’t spend nearly as much time analyzing everything he says to you. You don’t feel like you’re a robot, perfectly content being a robot, beeping and booping all over the place, who some sadistic jackass installed love.exe in overnight and oh no, what’s that, that’s not supposed to be there, error, error... At least, not as much.

You’re both 18 now, and he grew up beautifully. You shot up like a fucking weed and spent most of high school tripping over your own big feet and struggling to find jeans that fit, all sharp angles and long lines, but he filled out. Not muscled like a body-builder, no, he was too down to earth and pretty for that. Strong, though, so strong, he could probably bench press you despite the height difference, but soft in all the right places, like the little layer of fat on his stomach that he laments not being able to get rid of but you dream about, the supple area where his hips stop and his powerful thighs begin, the area you had only ever managed to feel on accident. Brown skin to match even darker brown hair, soft to the touch on his body but scruffy on his face, a light, even layer all along his jaw and ghosting up to the bottoms of his cheekbones and his upper lip, and just unkempt enough to look natural and attractive like someone had fucking painted it on. He got an undercut sophomore year, but kept the top wavy and wild at your request, a fact you refused to let excite you. He’s just the right amount of masculine, he looks like he could take on the fucking world, like he would beat the shit out of some “nefarious fiend” and climb up a tree unassisted to rescue a kitten in the very same day.

You got to watch him grow, you got to live it with him, you got to be there practically every step of the way, but there’s still something missing. It’s been missing since the day you first saw him and felt like your world as you knew it was crashing down around you and rebuilding itself in his image. 

That hole only got wider as you got older and more mature and your hormones got more insistent. Having a debilitating crush on a boy as a 13 year old is very fucking different than having a debilitating crush on a boy as an 18 year old, you came to find out. He was the object of your sexual fantasies, every goddamn night, you couldn’t so much as put your hand on your dick without him popping into your mind. It was really fucking weird, at first, this foreign experience of specifically wanting to have sex with someone, when before all of the vague sexual attraction you felt towards celebrities (Keanu Reeves, you sexy beast) was more… wanting have sex at them. It was incorporeal, unattainable, not even on the same plane of existence as you. But with Jake, you could imagine it so fucking clearly, you could think about exactly what you wanted to do with him,  _ to _ him, as bad as you felt thinking about it. And even though Roxy, your lifeline through the years, always insisted it was because of love, that you wanted to fuck his brains out because you ~luved him~, you always felt disgusting and dirty. Like you were violating him somehow, just with your thoughts, by fantasizing about him. You felt predatory. You still feel predatory. It’s not a good feeling, but you think you accepted the fact that you’re a degenerate long ago, probably after the third or fourth or fifth time you jacked it to the thought of cumming on his face. _(_ _ Would he lick it off? Would he wear his glasses or take them off beforehand? Would he look up at you and smile and say something snarky about your intake of pineapples? Why are you defiling him like this? Dirty, dirty, dirty, you’re  _ dirty.)

But you can’t even be mad at him for it! It would be so much easier if you could just hate him, but it’s not his fault. He’s infuriating sometimes, but it’s not his fault. It’s yours. It’s on you, you know it is. You got your hopes up, when you tested the waters, playfully flirting with him, and you thought he was flirting back. Maybe he was. It doesn’t matter anymore. He probably looked to you for direction, for boundaries, and he thought what you were doing was just best friend behavior, so he reciprocated. You could’ve gone on and let him think that, just to get to feel the little rush when he said something that crossed the line into innuendo or implication, but that felt like taking advantage of him. You would rather eat broken glass than abuse his optimistic nature. So you put him on the spot, one day, after school, at the end of the first semester of senior year. He was going away for Winter break, so if things went to shit you would have two weeks to come up with a way to salvage whatever was left of your relationship and your feelings. You were gonna tell him. You were gonna tell him. You were.

You didn’t.

You started to, but it felt like your mouth was full of cotton. Your face suddenly got very very warm, and you couldn’t help but think back to the whole robot thing. Your thermal compound has degenerated, you’re overheating, and the wires in your processing system are tying themselves into knots that would bring a tear to a boy scout’s eye, all in front of this wonderful, gorgeous boy. The worst part was that he noticed, and like the standup guy he is he put his arm around your shoulders, even though he had to shift and stretch to reach across all the way because you’re proportioned like a fucking Dorito, and leaned into you on that bench at the mall while assuring you that you could say anything that was on your mind. Then and there you knew you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t burden him with the knowledge of your feelings. So instead you asked him if he was attracted to you. Or more like blurted it out, all the words tumbling over each other to leave your lips and get the fuck out of dodge to escape the inevitable letdown that was coming in T-minus seven seconds.

He blinked those emerald greens at you a few times, and you hastened to elaborate, bringing up the flirting-- what you had thought of as flirting-- and understanding dawned on his face. He was incredibly apologetic, because of course he was, he never meant to give you the wrong impression. He just saw you as a friend. His best friend in the whole world. You nodded and tried to keep as straight a face as possible. He apologized again, most likely to prevent an awkward silence, and you insisted, no, it’s fine, you were only wondering, you’d just been confused. He seemed relieved at that, and you knew you’d made the right decision.

He bought you lunch, and when you departed you curled up in the fetal position in the back of your car and listened to Slipknot with the volume up loud enough that you could feel the bass in your brain stem for fifteen minutes before driving home. Thank god he had his own ride.

But that was almost four months ago. It’s fine. Things are fine. He’ll keep growing, you’ll keep watching like his most adoring fan, he’ll get married to some cute little woman that he can pick up and spin around, and they’ll have a house with a white picket fence and a tire swing, and you’ll be the weird esoteric lonely not-actually-related uncle that his kids will realize was, like, super fucking gay once they get old enough.

And if you think about falling asleep next to him, and cupping his face while you press gentle kisses to his lips, you’ll just have to deal. And if you wonder about whether he’d be the big or little spoon, and what his face looks like when he orgasms, and all the beautiful noises he would make for you if he let you worship him, noises just for you,  _ only for you _ , then that’s your problem, bud. And if you sometimes lie in bed all night staring at your ceiling and silently crying until you have no tears left to let slip out when he smiles at you like you’re someone worth keeping around the next day, you’ll just have to get over it.

You’re lucky. You know you are. You just wish it didn’t hurt so bad.

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact the title of this in my google docs is "fucking dumbass bullshit fuck" so that should give you an idea of my state of mind when i wrote this


End file.
